


Mating Habits

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Romance, Sex, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1862496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At twenty, Sherlock Holmes was already handsome. Luella suspected he would one day be decadent. He would one day be very bad for someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was tall with gangly limbs and a graceful walk. Too-bright eyes darted with too much energy. Maniacal black hair and pale skin. Obscenely full mouth. But too skinny. Tired. Exhausted. Starving for information and wanted for different reasons by every woman at the London Library. 

There were the older women in their sixties, who wanted to take the young man home and feed him, give him a bed for sleeping. There were the women closer to his own age who wanted to take him to bed and do no sleeping at all. And there was Luella, who at age thirty-five, fell somewhere in between. 

She only knew how old he was because she’d seen his license when he applied for his library card. Twenty. He was only twenty, and his name was Sherlock Holmes. 

Walking toward her desk, he could be awkward. His feet were too big, but he was already handsome. Luella suspected he would one day be decadent. He would one day be very bad for someone.

“Mating cycle of African locusts.”

He often spouted sentence fragments at her. Whenever he spoke, addressed her that way, she ignored him for thirty seconds on purpose.

Luella’s co-worker Amanda—a lovely redhead right out of university—once said she wanted to “bang his voice,” if that was possible, and his voice was a very nice part of the overall package. But it was his eyes—his freakish, cold, ice-like eyes—that made Luella’s stomach quake. Sometimes, Luella woke up at night, and her mind flowed over with images of avalanches and icebergs. 

“Luella.” Hers was the only name he knew, because she was the one he used—had apparently chosen from all the other librarians as his slave.

“Mating cycle of African locusts, yes.” She adjusted a stack of leather bound books on her desk. “Amanda is not busy at the moment.” She gestured to the nearby redhead who leaned on a desk and looked to be imagining how to most efficiently remove Sherlock’s jeans.

“No,” he huffed.

“Why not?”

“Mating cycle of African locusts. Please.” He tapped long fingers on the top of her desk until she stood up. 

Her high, black, patent leather heels made no sound on the red carpet. Then, she clunked up the well-lit stairs of the library with him right behind her. He was always close. He sometimes felt like a shadow. There was nothing sexual about it. Factually, there was nothing sexual about Sherlock at all. He did not strut or wink or flirt. He barely smiled, and he was terse, rude. 

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, he was the epitome of sensuality. The sound of his voice, the way he caressed book covers, how he looked not like a man but like a painting … he was unlike anyone Luella had ever seen.

She walked past stacks of biology books. “Why on Earth must you know about African locusts?” She paused and poked at book bindings.

“I just need to know.” He batted her hand away and found the book she was looking for. He pulled the book free from the shelf and turned away. He disappeared behind another row of books, but she heard the low rumble of his voice as he whispered to himself.

The lingering scent of stale cigarette was his “thank you.”


	2. Chapter 2

She overheard other women talking. Luella knew they resented her for being Sherlock’s worker bee, so they never talked to her about him; they talked about him when they thought she wasn’t listening.

“I’m going to ask him out. Do you suppose he knows what he looks like?” Amanda whispered, but whispers tended to carry in libraries.

“Absolutely. Not,” Terry said—a woman with a Master’s degree who always brought much younger men to holiday parties.

“How? How can he not know he’s beautiful?”

Luella wanted to speak up and tell them, “Because he’s too smart to care.” She didn’t. She went online and ordered a new book about Chinese death rituals instead—for Sherlock.

“Wouldn’t you love to peel off all those layers and fuck him against a bookshelf?”

Luella winced.

“Pull on that glorious hair …”

Amanda giggled. “Suck that bottom lip for days.”

“Luella.”

She cussed, loudly, when she realized he was standing above her desk, wearing all those layers her co-workers talked about. He always over-dressed, even in the summer—coats, scarves, like he was hiding something. She wondered if he was just a skeleton below the neck. 

“You scared me,” she said.

“Insomnia.”

“What?”

He blinked at her. “In-som-nia.”

She stood up slowly and rounded the desk. She paused next to him, thinking.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Luella looked up and noticed his eyes were bloodshot. Dark circles sat like tiny, purple pillows under his eyes, and his hair was wrapped in knots on his head. “Are you all right?” she replied.

Amanda interrupted them. She had on a pale pink sweater and grey slacks. Her clothes were, in Luella’s opinion, too tight for their professional setting. She played with her painted fingers and smiled. “Sherlock, I’m glad I caught you. I was wondering if I could buy you a drink sometime.”

Luella watched his expression carefully. He squinted his blue eyes and took a deep breath. “Your father left when you were a child which is why you always go after unavailable men. You just love to be disappointed. In fact, when you go out at night, you sometimes wear a fake wedding band in order to attract the wrong kind of man. You have two cats, and you cover the smell of their excrement with vanilla candles in your tiny, shithole apartment in …” He paused and looked at her shoes. “Brixton. No, you cannot buy me a drink. Luella. Insomnia.”

Amanda took steps back, away from him, like he might bite. 

Luella stared into his pale, haggard face. “That was bloody rude,” she said.

“I answered her question.”

Luella rounded her desk and sat down. “Use the card catalogue. I don’t have time for you today.”

He didn’t budge. He just stood across from her, waiting. She ignored him standing there, and he eventually went away—only to return three seconds later with a chair. He set the chair across from her and sat down. 

When she looked up, Luella saw an unfamiliar expression on his face. There was a wrinkle across the bridge of his nose, and the right side of his mouth was turned up. The appearance of his smirk brought forth a small dimple.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

He smiled, just a little, just enough for her to notice his straight, white teeth, and the way his skin wrinkled with unaccustomed glee.

Despite herself, Luella smiled back at him. She leaned forward and whispered, “How the bloody hell did you know about her cats?”

His smile dwindled, and his eyelids drooped.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“No idea.” He seemed to shrink in the seat, pull his lanky appendages in and sink into himself.

“Sherlock, what do you do when you’re not here bothering me?”

His eyes shot open, and he stood up. He almost knocked the chair over with the force of his ascension. Then, he turned and left the library without his book about insomnia and without saying goodbye.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days later, he came bounding across the high-ceiling entrance of the London Library. Luella didn’t have to look up from her computer to know it was Sherlock; she recognized his walk—fast, forceful, just like he talked. 

He had on his usual long, heavy coat; underneath, a wrinkled light blue button-down that made his eyes glow like flashlights. He had on the dark jeans Luella knew Amanda liked. Lucky girl wasn’t at work that day; she’d been dreading Sherlock’s return since he’d turned down her drink invitation. He had his shaggy hair tucked under a newsboy hat, and he almost knocked over an intern on his way to Luella’s desk.

“Solar system.” He was surrounded by smoke; must have just put out his cigarette on the steps outside.

“Anything in particular about the solar system?”

His fingers tapped on her desk. He seemed out of breath. “Yes. No. Anything. Something.” His eyes danced around the room, from the red carpet, to the filing cabinets, to books of maps and charts. 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“Solar system.”

“Jesus.” She stood up and started walking. He stepped on the back of her shoe and made her trip but caught her before she fell. He held her by her forearm, and she felt his hand shake. 

They disappeared between rows of stacks, past professors and academes in search of their next breakthrough. Was that what he was, she wondered? Was Sherlock some kind of prodigy—some unstable genius, childlike and yet fully-grown? She didn’t actually know much about him, beyond his penchant for random trivia. She knew he was somewhat manic; he could go from energetic to full-on crash in thirty seconds. She knew he was beautiful, and she knew something was wrong.

They stopped in the science section, not far from the mating habits of locusts. She watched his adept fingers tap against books, shift certain books out of the way, but he never pulled a book from the shelf. His hands continued to shake.

“Sherlock?”

He didn’t register the sound of her voice, but he mumbled to himself.

“Sherlock.”

“No, no.” He shook his head and pushed the tips of his fingers against his skull. “Not the solar system. Something else, something …”

“What’s wrong?”

He appeared to be arguing with himself. His gaze went fuzzy like he didn’t even know where he was anymore. He knocked the hat off his own head and didn’t move to pick it up. The volume of his voice began to rise. People would soon wonder about the lunatic in the stacks, so Luella did the one thing she thought might reach him.

She took a firm hold on the lapels of his coat and kissed him. 

It wasn’t a deep kiss. There was no tongue, no parting of mouths. She just pressed her lips against his and held onto him. His long arms reached from one stack to the next, connecting the two with his hands as he stood, frozen, his mouth on hers.

Then, she pulled away, and it worked. He was back. His eyes registered her presence, and his hands didn’t shake anymore.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know how else to calm you down.”

His brow was furrowed, and he looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. 

“The solar system books …” She cleared her throat and gestured.

“Can I see you tonight?”

She bit her lip. He was too young, much too young. He was practically a child. He was gangly and unruly and, fuck all, the most transfixing creature she’d ever seen. She looked away. “Sherlock.”

“Do you want to?”

Luella wondered what he asked: Did she want to go on a date with him? Did she want to have sex with him? Did she want to fix him? “Of course, I want to.” She touched the lapel of his coat, not sure which question she answered.

“Where?”

She looked at his mouth. “I can make you dinner.”

He typed her address and phone number into a very expensive-looking cellular phone and said he would be over at seven. Books about the solar system were left to collect dust behind their backs.


	4. Chapter 4

Luella left work early. She bought steak and potatoes at the grocery store. She replaced the sheets on her bed and shaved her legs. She did all this knowing she would not sleep with Sherlock Holmes. She almost cancelled their dinner, but she didn’t have his phone number. She was honestly afraid what a man like Sherlock could do to her and not in the physical sense.

He was still so young and had not yet grown into what she knew one day would be overwhelming prowess. Even at twenty, he held the promise of power. His looks were but a small part of the cloud that enveloped him and anyone who drew near. When at the library, she was surrounded by him, which was why she always did what he asked. She was fifteen years his senior, and she responded to his every summons. He seemed too much for a woman to handle.

As she waited for him, sipping a glass of wine, she considered his women. How many hearts had he broken? How many fantasies allowed and stolen away? She imagined a road paved with broken hearts and tear-soaked sheets.

He arrived on time, and when she opened the door, she felt bad for thinking the worst of him. He was nothing but a brilliant kid, standing on her welcome mat in a handsome, dark green sweater with jeans.

“You found it,” she said stupidly. She opened the door wide for him and wondered if she should just tell him: say, “This was a mistake.”

He stepped inside, and she watched those bright eyes study the interior of her apartment. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her stacks of books and photos of family and friends. She noticed the cinnamon candle she’d lit earlier didn’t really mesh well with the smell of slowly cooking steak in the kitchen. She blew it out when she walked past him.

“Glass of wine?”

“No.”

Luella moved to the stove, where she turned down the heat on the boiling potatoes. Then, she felt his body next to her, and he turned off the heat completely. He put his hands on her hips and lifted her onto the counter so that they were the same height.

She started to say his name, but he kissed her. The kiss was similar to the one shared in the book stacks—clean, gentle, questioning. When he pulled away, he put his fingertips on her wrist and looked into her eyes like a scientist looking into a microscope.

“You like when I kiss you,” he said.

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She pushed her bangs out of her face. “What do you mean?”

“Is it me or could it be anyone?”

She tilted her head at him.

“Would you have the same physiological response if anyone kissed you, or is there something particular about me that you enjoy?”

She grabbed his wrist. “Your pulse is racing.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Of course it’s you.” She put her hand on his cheek. “But this can’t happen. You’re too young.”

“You’re what I need.” He didn’t say it in a way that made her heart flutter; he said it as a barrister in court. “I need experience.”

“Sherlock.” She shook her head, chuckled. “You make it sound like I’m a teacher.”

“Precisely. I need to understand.”

“Understand what?”

He stepped away from her and started pacing. “Sex. Baser motives. I need to understand why women look at me the way they do—what they expect from me. I need to understand what sex means, and I can’t find that in a book. I’ve tried. That’s why I need you.”

Luella’s heart started banging against her chest. Her mind felt tilted sideways, and she couldn’t conclude whether the sweat between her breasts was from panic or from the very shocking, very real opportunity to pop the cherry of the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

She couldn’t say the words, ask the questions. She kept stuttering, her mind overwrought with unwelcome images of fucking him until her bed broke. She was irritated at the embarrassing wetness between her legs. She was humiliated by the way his body had taken on a golden glow.

In her silence, he pulled at the sleeves of his sweater and rolled them up with annoyance. Just like that, her mind cleared to a single tunnel of sight, because he was covered in track marks.

“Jesus!” She jumped off the counter and took his wrist in her hand. He didn’t even try to pull away. “Sherlock …”

“Thought you would have guessed by now.”

“Look at your arms.” She pulled on the other sleeve, and for some reason, she was crying. His pale skin was a map of bruises and angry, purple holes. She now understood his long sleeves in summer. She understood the way his hands shook. “How long?”

“Two years. My mind gets too loud.”

Luella looked up at him. He wasn’t embarrassed or sad. He obviously did not see his drug addiction as a problem but as a solution. He pulled his wrists away from her and pulled his sleeves back down.

“I should go,” he said.

She held onto the fabric of his shirt. “Stay.”

“I’ve sufficiently ruined the mood.”

“Sleep here,” she said. “I’d like if you did.”

He regained his adorable forehead wrinkle. “Why?”

“Sex isn’t just about orgasms, Sherlock. That’s not why women look at you the way they do. They see someone strong and smart—someone who could keep them warm at night.” She reached out and pulled him to her with her fingertips in the top of his jeans. “Granted, you look like you’d be a fantastic fuck, too.”

He smiled and looked away.

She put her palms in the center of his back and hugged him closer. “How about we just hold each other tonight? And start to fix this.” She touched his covered forearm with one of her fingers. “I won’t stand by and watch someone so brilliant throw everything away.”

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers.

Luella did actually make him dinner, the skinny bastard. She made him eat steak, salty mashed potatoes, and even ice cream—two scoops.

Later, when they moved to her bedroom, she found Sherlock had no shame. Whereas she planned to put on her nightie in the bathroom, he stripped down right in front of her and climbed beneath her sheets. She was not disappointed by what she saw. He was not as skeletal as she imagined. He was a series of long, taut muscles and pale skin. He was inviting.

After brushing her teeth and changing into a short, silk camisole, she joined him in bed. He lay on his back and stared at her ceiling. His eyes didn’t dart the way they usually did. He seemed calm.

Luella moved closer and wrapped one leg around his. She put her arm around his stomach and laid her head in the center of his chest. His body felt cold, so she inched closer to warm him up. His fingers found her upper arm and tickled softly. His lips found her forehead. He kissed her there, and his mouth remained against her skin.

“So now we just sleep together?” he muttered.

She laughed. “You don’t sleep very much, do you?”

“No.”

“Maybe someday you will.”

“That’s what the drugs are for,” he whispered.

“I don’t know you. I don’t know you at all,” she said. “But if I asked you to stop the drugs, would you?”

“I would go crazy without them.”

Luella leaned up on her elbow and looked down at him. In the light cast from the streetlights outside, his skin was like snow. “Is there something else you could do? Instead of the drugs?”

“Nothing I’ve found.”

She bit her lip. “Is your mind racing right now?”

“Not as much as usual.”

She gave little consideration to the motion of her hand as it traveled beneath the sheet and down his flat stomach. She paused below his bellybutton. “How about now?”

His chest rose and fell slowly. He closed his eyes.

She moved her hand lower and was surprised to find him at full attention. She wrapped her fingers around a very impressive erection. “You’ve never been with anyone before?”

“I wasn’t lacking in offers.” His voice had taken on an even lower timbre. Luella wondered if her roof shook from the outside.

“No.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t be.” She leaned forward and tongued his nipple, which made his right shoulder twitch. “How’s your mind right now?”

“Blissfully unaware.”

Soon, Luella’s mouth replaced her hand. For someone so controlled, Sherlock was incredibly loud in bed. She supposed he surprised even himself in that respect, considering he’d never been given head before. She loved his noises: the panting, the growls, the extended moan that ended in her name.

Once he’d finished, she spread her body on top of him. The silk of her nightgown stuck to his skin. His heavy breaths tickled her face with pieces of dancing hair. He wrapped his scarred arms around her.

“It has been said I have an addictive personality,” he said into her hair.

“Is that a warning?”

“May I sleep here again tomorrow?”

She lifted her upper body, still straddling his hips. “You won’t fall in love with me, will you?”

He was exhausted, she could see, half asleep, but he still had time to say, “I don’t believe in it.” Then, he closed his eyes and left her trapped with his arms around her legs, staring at what she knew was a huge mistake.


	5. Chapter 5

They had sex two nights later. Luella tried to beg him off. She tried to tell him it was not a good idea, but he would have none of her refusals. He wanted her, needed her, to quiet his mind.

Then, once they were in bed together, tangled limbs …

Once she was pinned beneath him, staring into those impassioned eyes …

Once they shared their pleasure, sweaty kisses, hungry tongues …

Only then did Luella admit to herself she’d been in love with Sherlock Holmes even before he made love to her, before he first set foot into her home. She’d loved him at the library, back when all he wanted from her were books about locusts and the solar system. She’d loved his mind, and now, she loved his body, too.

It was too late to stop. She had become his newest drug, but he used her without feeling.

As the nights went by, she only found more reasons to love him. When he read, his long toes moved in arches to silent music only he could hear. One night, he brought a violin and played Chopin. She adored the sound of his laugh, reserved for rare moments of elation, shared only with her.

He would not share his love.

When she denied him sex, she was not prepared for his wrath. He did not yell or punch the walls. His seething was silent—nothing more than a clenched jaw—and oh, God, that was so much more terrifying as he walked past her and into the night.

She called to him, “Don’t. Don’t, Sherlock.”

She knew he knew what she meant.


	6. Chapter 6

He went missing for three days. At first, his phone rang and went to voicemail. Then, the ringing stopped. Somewhere, his phone was dead. Luella didn’t know enough about his life to seek him out. She didn’t know who could help her, so she started at hospitals. She traveled every corner of London in search of a pale, thin creature, tied to IVs. She even tried morgues and had nightmares of him lifeless beneath a sheet.

Then, one night she came home, and her apartment smelled like cigarettes. She found him in her bedroom, leaned on the windowsill. He had on a white button-down and black slacks. The button-down was rolled up in the sleeves to reveal his abused flesh. She suspected he showed his scars on purpose to upset her.

He appeared disinterested at her entrance. He blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. The glare of the moon outside caught his cheekbones and framed the tips of his hair in light.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“What do you care?”

She dropped her purse on the ground, and books tumbled loudly around her feet. She stomped toward him and grabbed his chin in her hand. She turned his head to face her and stared into his eyes—clear, cold blue.

“You haven’t been using.”

“No.” He blew smoke at her.

She shoved his chin away and almost knocked him from his perch. “How did you get in here?”

“I broke in from the fire escape.” He tossed his cigarette outside and curled over the windowpane to watch it fall.

“Your phone—”

“Lost it.” He looked at her and smiled with tight lips. She knew he was lying. Then, he stood up and stretched his long, lean muscles. “You taught me something very important the other day.”

“What’s that?”

His eyes found her face, and backlit, his irises looked almost black. He looked older. “Sex can be used as a tool. A power play.”

She took a step away from him. “That’s not what I—”

He took hold of her arms. “Oh, but you did. When this all started, you had the power. You were the teacher.” He lifted his chin slightly and looked down at her. “Then, something happened. Something changed. You fell in love with me, and you lost your power.”

“Let go of me, Sherlock.”

He only held on tighter. “You taught me how to make someone love me, how to make love, but there’s one thing I still want to learn.” He tickled her ear with his mouth. “How to fuck someone.”

Luella tried to push him away, but he crushed his mouth against hers. He kissed her, hard, until she bit his bottom lip. He made a gasping sound and pulled away, his hand to his mouth.

She was enraged and overcome with the lustful need to tear him limb from limb. She actually saw surprise in his eyes when she came at him.

She held on to the front of his shirt and pulled. The force of her tug knocked him forward some. He had to take a step to avoid falling into her. The tug had the desired result; the buttons on his shirt sprung loose and scattered silently across the carpet of her bedroom. His pale skin was revealed, and she leaned up on her toes and bit hard at the base of his neck. He drew away from her again in pain.

“You want to learn how to fuck someone without feeling? I can’t teach you that.”

“No.” He put his hand on his neck where there would soon be a bruise.

“I can’t see you anymore. Not here. Not at the library.” She looked away from him and shook her head.

Unfortunately, he came closer—close enough to see her eyes were wet. “Why did you fall in love with me?”

“Only you would have the bollocks to ask someone that.”

“I need to understand.”

She wiped angrily at her tears. “Why?”

“So I don’t let it happen again.”

Luella gawked at him, horrified. “Why wouldn’t you want someone to love you?”

“It’s too messy. I don’t want it.”

“Life is a mess.”

His brow wrinkled. “Not if I’m alone.”

She took hold of his wrist. “This happens when you’re alone.”

“I’m entering rehab. My brother’s orders. I only came here to say goodbye.” He pulled out of her grasp and reached for the suit jacket on the back of her desk chair.

“You came here to make me hate you, didn’t you?”

He pulled the jacket over his long arms and buttoned it over his half-ruined shirt. Then, in the darkness, she saw it, as if traveling through time. She saw how Sherlock would be someday.

His chest would broaden; his eyes, narrow. He would cut his hair, keep it shorter. He would buy new suits, more expensive suits. He would push people away—grow meaner, more acidic.

He would become a brilliant, beautiful villain.

She watched him approach and didn’t back away when he put his large hand on her cheek. He leaned down and kissed her, and the innocent young man from her library stacks was back for the duration of their last shared embrace.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he muttered.

“You’ll be brilliant someday.” She did not hide the hint of sadness in her tone.

He walked away. He left her bedroom, and she heard the front door close behind him. She thought perhaps she should cry, but there were no tears. He had been a mistake. He was her mistake. And perhaps she was his.


	7. Chapter 7

“Whatever happened to the asshole that used to come round?” Amanda stood next to Luella’s desk at the London Library and pouted. “I mean, he really was an asshole, but so nice to look at. Haven’t seen him.”

Luella sighed and tapped at her keyboard. She had recently decided they needed a more extensive collection of astronomy texts. 

“Luella?”

“I don’t know. Sorry.” 

Amanda pulled up a chair. “He was quite mad about you, wasn’t he?”

“Who?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Or didn’t you know?” The younger woman picked at her fingernails. “Way he used to stare you down like he might eat you. If he ever came in on your days off, he would just turn around and leave.”

Luella stopped typing. “I didn’t. Know.”

“Shame.” Amanda stood up. “Bet you coulda taught him a thing or two in the bedroom.” She winked and walked away.

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/)!


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